Gai-Shift - Out of Africa Chapter 17: Diamonds are a Girls best friend...

by Rohana

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© Copyright 2011 - Rohana - Used by permission

Storycodes: FF/f+; machine/f+; bond; gag; insert; captive; drug; tease; denial; climax; cons/nc; X

(story continues from )

To understand the Gai Shift & to review the characters in this story, check out this useful guide: Gai-Shift Encyclopedia of Knowledge

Chapter 17: Diamonds are a Girls best friend...
- with thanks to SkyHawk7x

Twenty-six days beyond the season of rains, afternoon

I am Pili, and I own white women.

Well, perhaps technically it is Noblewoman Jumbe who owns them. Or perhaps it is the below-god, the voice behind the wall that animates the magical machines, who owns them.

But in a way, I own these women, pink and aroused and locked in skin-tight sheathing.

In particular, I own little Sister, the red-haired nun who hangs naked and strapped and blushing in heated agitation as the lever arm at the back of her leather corset slowly lifts, her milling toes cutting arcs in the air. “Please... no...” she croaks. But there is no stopping it, not now. Jumbe has pulled the lever.

The first thing to happen is that the steel lines attached to the cuffs locking up their dainty ankles draw into the bottom edge of their corsets, neatly folding their legs, turning them into a row of squirming squawking hens.

The second thing to happen is the flexible metallic banding that rises up from the lever arm, unfolding like a book behind the jacketed women's heads. Like a silvery scarf, it wraps around their faces, tucking under their noses, locking over their mouths like the broad hands of a wise yet sensuous woman. Quite suddenly, our row of seven little maidens (Livy, Petunia, Kate, Teak, Chespeake, Adara, and Sister) find themselves gagged. Over the shiny banding, their eyes flash in distress.

It is a distress that rapidly magnifies, for now their suits are adjusting, tightening around them, pinching and stressing and shaping, forcing womanly sensations upon them, playing off their lusts, bowing the proud, thrusting the meek. Bordering their vulvas, cilia-laced straps nuzzle. Over their breasts, captured nipples are gnawed in gumming bra-pockets. It is as if each woman is being masticated inside some huge leathery mouth, one that is chewing them into a sensuous paste.

Livy Stone, our original captive, sighs and settles in, allowing her body to react to the stimulation and its churning wants. At her side, Petunia curls a throaty moan, savoring the experience. Kate grunts into her gag, fighting the machines that tighten her corset-sheath so rudely around her. And Teak the thief finds the situation oddly reversed as we prepare to steal her passions. At her side, Chespeake moans in fearful agitation, overwhelmed as the automations churn her, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. Adara the storyteller tries to sooth her with her cool demeanor, but is unable to maintain her composure as the cunningly tiny belts tighten around her young, lush body.

And, at the end of the line, demur little Sister whines against her gag in outrage as her body begins to react. I've peeked into the pages of her story - I know about her devotion to her goddess; these withheld orgasms are a crime to her.

Oddly, I find myself wishing I could stop Annie's machine, to cuddle her and stroke her until the elixir was gone from her fevered body, to molest her with loving tenderness and not the base abuse that will soon befall them.

“It is time,” Jumbe orders. “Mosi, see to the diamonds. Pili, you continue with your documentation.”

Raised aloft, their knees cocked back, their arms lost behind them, their lips sealed, the poor girls can only watch as Mosi waddles over to a storage shelf. From it she brings an armful long stands with wide bases, the upper tip containing clever locking mechanisms. She places one beneath each helplessly hovering girl, smiling up between their legs, meeting each set of fearful eyes. Each helpless girl realizes where the shaft will go should they be lowered. They bleat like sheep, all save Stone, who endures it with shuttered eyes, and Petunia, who watches these fateful developments with something very much like randy anticipation.

Next Mosi fetches diamonds from a pail inside the cupboard, useless diamonds, milky and irregular. She places one atop each brace which click as they lock upon their stones. This done, she nods back to Jumbe who throws another lever.

With a hiss like a shocked audience, the lever arms slowly lower. In their leathery grips, the seven women look down their strap-taunt, leather wrapped bellies, down between their forced-back legs, to the stand-mounted diamonds. Some moan, some wail, some purr as they envelope the bobbles, Their sex-hungry pussies swallow the shafts, the lever arms forcing them down ever-further, their eyes flashing as their fleshy depths are plumed. Then, one by one, they are lifted off the sex-slick rocks, then lowered, raised, lowered, a forceful intercourse that grants them not one liberty. Their sole job is to lubricate these rocks with their living fluids, to be forced onto them, over and over, nothing more than a tool.

It is always interesting to watch (in a breath-holding, pulse-pounding, sweat-sheening way) as our victims go up and down, up and down, like women riding some demonic carrousel. The air fills with their pungent musk, their moans, their warbles. As folded as envelopes, sticky as stamps, the diamonds are rammed into their slots over and over, a process they can hardly endure yet not escape.

Livy Stone finishes first, her diamond, now perfect, glimmering atop its stand in flawless beauty and sticky effluence. Jumbe moves the controls to dangle her in mid-thrust; her head lulling and her eyes out of focus – she's living her endless moment of lingering depravity. Mosi removes the diamond, rinses it, then tosses it into another cupboard bucket. These invaluable stones will eventually be shipped through Port Mons for international distribution.

Atop the stand goes another junk rock. Jumbe meets Livy's blurred eye and throws her lever. Once more that taunt mature woman is rammed down onto her rock, her secretions slowly coating it, its crystal makeup already reforming.

Petunia finishes next. Again, Mosi removes her diamond, giving the sweaty, corset-locked blonde a friendly pat on the thigh. Moments later, she is back in motion, up and down, up and down, her experienced twat sucking the cold stone like lips on a lemon.

I find my eyes moving to Sister. I try to look away but her draw is like gravity. The poor bronze-haired nun is shuddering and shaking, the straps forcing her modest breasts out, her arms crushed behind her back, so severe. With her thighs cocked hard up beneath her buttocks, she looks so subservient that I crave ownership over her. And as her body burns with an elixir-fueled fire she cannot extinguish, her eyes flash a frustration deeper than sexual - she yearns for a climax but is chemically held in check. In her sex-muddled mind, she knows she is depriving her loving goddess of the orgasms they both crave. Regardless of her wishes, commitments and desires, Sister bobs up and down like a shoe on the toe of a bored woman, her diamond rinsed and tossed into the bucket, another locked in its place.

Little Sister, there is an entire Earth of diamonds we can run through you. And I'll savor every gasp, every gush, every grimace you produce. Another rock is washed and bucketed. Another inferior stone is positioned under her steaming snatch.

Up and down they go, working through their rocks. Jumbe, Mosi and I exchange glances. So productive yet such a waste. How nice it would be to have anxious Sister, leggy Chespeake, angrily impotent Teak, or any of the others roped up in our beds, a playmate forced to play by our rules, to make our goals their own. Now nice it would be.

I find my sweaty wrists sticking to the diary.

Oddly, Petunia is the first to let go. It's subtle yet distinctive, her growling moans signaling ecstasy becoming nirvana. With her eyes screwed shut, her mouth banded closed, her body encased, there is very little facial or body language she can convey yet she glows with near-visible light, her climax a titanic event. She rocks up and down on her lever arm, finishing up her stone, panting, sweating, grunting. And then she's through. Her final stone for the session goes into the bucket.

Mosi tends to her, comforts her, tips her back. Her legs unspool, trailing across the floor lifelessly. A touch to the banding-toggle releases it – it forms a neat headrest for the weary woman. But her face is alight; she's glowing like a campfire from her sexual conclusion. In her disarray, she is beautiful to behold.

Mosi dabs the explosive juices from her pussy. Then she fetches a glass of water and a leather sleep hood. Petunia sips demurely, then tips her head forward to receive her encasement. With quick tugs, the sleep hood is laced firmly up the back of her head. Muted, muffled, tucked in the relentless leather grip of the corset and hood, Lady Petunia falls instantly asleep, her job done.

Diamonds continue to be replaced. Girls eventually break free of the elixir's bonds and climax, shuddering, shaking, slobbering. One by one, they are forced into their sleeping arrangements. Kate darts frightened looks to her aunt's hooded form yet is easily subdued. Teak requires me to help Mosi; I hold the cursing head in my hands as my partner forces the leather over her face, hauling brutality on the lacing in petty revenge. Chespeake goes down like a beautiful liner sinking, sadly accepting her lace-up with a slave's patience. And last to go is dear Sister, her eyes fearful as the hood casts its unquestioning shadow over her face. I step in as if to help Mosi, smiling down at those tearful, wide eyes.

“I will read your words tonight,” I say, lifting the book. “I will read your thoughts.”

“Please, for the love of Astarte...”

I silence her with a kiss. Then the hood falls over her, trapping her in its endless night.

 

12.08.11

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